When I left off reading the series The Accursed Kings, it was with the observation that The Lily and the Lion was written to be the final book in the series. After that came a gap of 17 years, only after which was another book in the series written and published. The narrative, also, advanced a similar number of years past the death of Robert of Artois.

The new book is, in French, called Quand un Roi perd la France, which I would translate as “When a King Loses France.” Unlike the original six books, which were translated to English (by Mr. Humphrey Hare!) at the time of their first French printing, the 1977 book was not translated until 2014 (translator: the considerably less-colorfully-named Andrew Simpkin) when the series received its current Martin-driven reprinting. In that 34-year gap, the sixth book remained unavailable to us English-only speakers. I believe that the English title, The King Without a Kingdom was contrived to give it as much of a Game of Thrones feel as possible.

Had they went with my translation, it would tie in well with the theme of the book. The original six books seemed to closely follow the theme of small actions resulting in big impacts. For the seventh, a new theme is emphasized. There is a strong theme about how a weak governmental leader can doom a nation. Granted, this was a theme in the earlier books as well – we saw the personal failures of the descendants of Philip the Fair chipping away at the fortunes of France. The King Without a Kingdom is more on just this King and just this time period and his singular lack of leadership traits.

The King who loses France is King John II, contemporaneously known as John the Good*. The King falls into a personal conflict with Charles II of Navarre, known (although probably not until much later) as Charles the Bad. The book discusses the bisexual proclivities of John relative to Charles’ murder of John’s “favorite” (and distant cousin, for that matter) Charles de La Cerda, also known (contemporaneously) as Charles of Spain. Charles (the Bad) had what would have been a rightful claim on the throne of France, except that his mother was given independent rule of Navarre in exchange for forever relinquishing any claim on France (to the benefit of Philip VI of Valois, father of John II and, himself, known as the Fortunate). Charles used the competing claims of John II and Edward III (no nickname) to advance his own cause relative to his hold on Navarre, Normandy, and other inherited claims.

The style of the book is one that I’ve come across before, I think in Victorian novels. Unfortunately, I can’t remember an example nor can I describe it succinctly enough to look up the technique. The entire book is told by Cardinal Hélie de Talleyrand-Périgord, a papal legate, as he is traveling to Metz to negotiate an end to the Hundred Years’ War. He is speaking mostly to his nephew Archambaud, who travels with him, although sometimes he speaks to others. In all cases, we read only what he says, himself, although he often responds to questions or reactions from his listeners. Initially, it made for difficult reading but once I got used to it, this book was as enjoyable and easy a read as its predecessors.

There are advantages to this style. The “present” can be firmly anchored as the time of the telling, relegating almost everything the Cardinal speaks about to recent past. The subtle shift in context means its easier to tell some aspects of a story to an audience that already knows, at least in part, how it will turn out. It also helps remove one of the dangers of historical fiction; namely that the author must mix fact, embellishment, and purely speculative content into a smooth, enjoyable story. In this case, we have the Cardinal speaking to us authoritatively about his own beliefs, which may or may not be confirmed by historical research. If nothing else, its a damn sight better than writing it all in present tense.

Bottom line, despite its distinct disconnect from the other books in the series, it is a worthy addition. For those still trying to get a grip on the historical facts, it helps provide an understanding about who all the various Johns, Charleses, Edwards, etc. were who were vying for power in France at the time. I believe it was intended (and does) provide valuable commentary on the importance of leadership, comentary that is applicable outside of feudal Europe. To be fair, the author makes an effort to tie the events** in this book back to the Tour de Nesle affair, the impact of which still drove the politics of the late 1350s.

Unfortunately, while I know what your most burning question is, I don’t think I can answer it. You want to know how Andrew Simpkin translation stands up to the work of Humphrey Hare. Because of this shift in narrative style, it becomes very difficult for me to compare the two. In any case, I don’t have any complaints about this translation.

Mediocrity

This high level combination of sieges, political intrigue, and made/broken alliances seems, among the games that I have, best represented by the Hundred Years’ War -themed game Montjoie! This is a 2008 computer implementation of a board game with the same name, at least in France. For the English-speaking players, the game was printed under the title Joan of Arc. It sits right on the cusp between being a very light wargame and being a Euro-game with heavier-than-usual emphasis on combat.

Having met defeat at the Battle of Portiers, I endeavor to recapture the lost city.

The computer version faithfully recreates the mechanics of the tabletop version including dealing hands of cards and rolling dice. Unlike typical wargames, the armies themselves are not represented on the board. Tokens (shown as shield in the above screenshot) indicate control of towns/cities and additional castle pieces are added when a held area is fortified. Military forces themselves are represented by a hand of cards. Battles are initiated by selecting one (for defense) or two (for attacks) cards from your hand and playing them in a designated battle. Again above, I am attempting to retake Portiers from the English and have played two military cards, plus an “influence” card, for seven base points to attack. The defender also has seven, meaning the winner will come down to whomever rolls the highest number (ties go to the defender). I won the battle but, as you can see below, the scenario-specific rule means that John II was captured in the initial loss at Portiers.

The game implements historical scenarios with flavor text which brings meaning to the scenario’s special rules.

I often use this game as an example of one of my recurrent topics. When converting a board game to a computer game, one result is that the “feel” of the game shrinks. There are a number of factors that can cause this. First of all, when the computer is doing all the calculations for you, that greatly reduces the amount of effort you’re putting into each turn. While this seems like a big plus (think of a UI showing available moves versus calculating out each movement path before making the choice), there is a downside. If you no longer have to go through all the rules before taking an action it may no longer be necessary to even understand all those rules. That, in turn, takes a game that may require a deep understanding of historically-derived special cases and turn it into a casual, “beer and pretzels” game. In terms of this game, I can’t speak intelligently to these issues as I’ve never played the original board game. I can see is that the physical is estimated at a 3-hour playing time and I know computer assistance will cut that way down. If nothing else, the reduction in playing time will also alter how “significant” a game feels.

Another factor that I was, unfortunately, unable to capture in my screenshots has to do with the art style. The board game components, which appear to be high quality, have an art style that mimics period depictions of battles. Again, not having played the game, I can’t say how seriously anyone might take it historically, but that art style does seem to lend a certain gravitas. The style of the computer game I would describe as whimsical. For example, battles use period-like graphics but are animated in a way that is more akin to Monty Python. The music is light and a little goofy and the the sound effects seem chosen for their comedic impact. Everything comes together to tell the player that this is a light, casual game rather than a serious trip to the world of medieval France.

Accursed Kings theme integrates with the game. A random event, Papal Intervention, allows the lucky player to designate a city as off-limits to attacks.

Contrast that with the historical text that accompanies the scenario. Scenarios are initiated with a background introduction distinctly lacking in silliness. This background may also determine parameters of the game itself; who is allied with whom, who gets which special cards, etc. Even more engaging, historically, are the events within the game. In this scenario, for example, the English get an extra “Hero” card (the +2 helmet, below) and a free chevauchée every other turn representing the Prince of Wales. Often the mechanic is trivial (the capture of King John II, a non-variable scenario event, results in 2 gold transferred from France to England each turn) but the flavor-text nevertheless layers the simplicity with historical meaning.

The Black Prince is back. Leading a force accompanied by siege engines my defenses at Portiers are no match for him and the city changes hands again.

As a result, this simple game from 11 years ago invokes the spirit of this book better than any other game I have at my disposal, surprising as that may be. A tactical simulation of the Battle of Portiers misses out on all the diplomatic and personal** conflict. My most likely candidate at the strategic level, Crusader Kings, both provides too much detail and lacks the anchor in the historical timeline. It seems that a proper representation of this period should be, by now, out there somewhere, but if it is, it is beyond my experience. For what its worth, Board Game Geek has one Hundred Years’ War strategic title that outranks Joan of Arc; Warriors of God from Multi-Man Publishing.

*Reading to the book’s end, the reader will be rewarded with an explanation of why such and obviously inadequate king and man fraught with personal weakness might have been labeled as The Good.

**[Yes, I use this same footnote more than once]. A key theme of the book is that the competing dynastic entities are, in fact, fairly closely related. The descendants of Philip the Fair, either directly or by marriage, are the rulers of all four of these factions. Furthermore, the conflicts between these branches of the same family are driven, at least in part, by infighting that took place in Philip’s among the grandfathers, grandmothers, and great uncles and aunts of the current belligerents.

Maurice Drouon writes in The Lily and the Lion, as his introduction to the War of the Breton Succession (or, at least, Robert d’Artois’ part in it), that “there were two Kings of France, each with his own Duke of Brittany, as each already had his own King of Scotland.” The Scotland reference is to the succession to the Scottish throne after Robert I (The Bruce)’s death.

In May of 1328, Robert the Bruce and Edward III had signed the Treaty of Edingburgh-Northampton, which recognized Scotland’s independence from England, and Bruce as Scotland’s king, in exchange for a payment of £100,000. The treaty was unpopular, particularly with the group of English nobility whose lands were lost by Scottish decree during the wars. The Scottish Parliament, after the Battle of Bannockburn, had passed a law revoking Scottish titles from all those who continued to fight for the English. This group of malcontents, therefore, became known as “The Disinherited.”

When King Robert died, his throne was inherited by his son David who, at the time, was only five. Robert had willed that his friend and fellow commander, Sir Thomas Randolph, the Earl of Moray, be named regent for his young son. It was only a year after Robert’s passing that James “Black” Douglas, another friend and leading Scottish warlord, also died. The growing weakness in young David’s court emboldened those who thought that Robert’s claim to the throne was itself illegitimate and that Edward Balliol, son of Robert’s predecessor as Scottish King, was the true heir. Balliol found common cause with the Disinherited as well as support from Edward III (who had signed the treaty of Edingburgh-Northampton under pressure from Roger Mortimer, at the time Regent of England but since executed for treason). The “Disinherited” were led by Henry de Beaumont, who was Earl of Buchan through marriage to Alice Comyn, daughter to John Comyn. Beaumont was a veteran of the wars against the Scots, having fought on the side Edward I.

In late 1331, Beaumont began raising an army for a private invasion of Scotland, summoning Edward Balliol from France to ride with him. In July 1332, Beaumont and Balliol heard of the death of the Earl of Moray (the regent), and sailed forth with their army to Kinghorn in Scotland. The attack by sea is said to be a condition of Edward’s (of England, this time) support, as it technically avoided having an English army cross the Scottish border, which would have been in violation of the peace. After landing, Beaumont, Balliol, and their small army marched on Perth.

Camping just across the river Earn, to the south of Perth, Beaumont found himself caught between two Scots armies. Across the river to his north was an army under the new Regent of Scotland, Donald, the Earl of Mar. Advancing from the south was a second army commanded by the Earl of Dunbar. Both armies outnumbered his own. In a bold move, he seized the initiative by crossing the river during the night, forcing Mar’s army to attack him on ground of Beaumont’s choosing.

Mar was blamed for allowing his army to be put at a disadvantage and was even accused of treason. To counter this claim, he attempted to charge forward with his men to demonstrate his leadership and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, this turned into a competition between the leaders of the Bruce’s army to see who could enter into battle the fastest.

Concordia res parvae crescent

Playing the battle of Dupplin Moor (as the site of the battle was known) in Field of Glory, I started with the Unity version (FoG(U)) and took the side of the smaller, rebel army. Although I knew they were victorious in the real battle, I assumed that the smaller army would put me at a disadvantage. Not so much, though.

Outnumbered, I wait for the Scottish charge. When it hits, I find that my English longbowmen are quite the warriors and quickly gain for me the advantage.

What I did realize is that playing as the rebels against a royalist AI closely matches the tactics of the historical battle. As I’ve stated before, the FoG(U) AI is considerably more aggressive than its predecessor. Like the competing commanders of old, the Scottish army charged forward while I attempted to maintain my advantageous position on the high ground. Beaumont had chosen to defend on hilly ground deployed in the shape of a crescent, placing his English longbowmen on his wings. These tactics, similar to those which brought victory at the Battle of Boroughbridge, honed the formations that would bring the English victory in the Hundred Years’ War in battles such as Crecy and Agincourt.

In the above screenshot, two out of the three Scottish formations became disorganized as they approached my lines – a historically accurate outcome. I also found my longbowmen to be exceptional at hand-to-hand combat. It’s another bone I have to pick with Field of Glory, although I don’t really know what the numbers are behind it or what would, indeed, make it more accurate. Archer formations aren’t particularly effective at ranged fire. Enemy formations can be picked at a few men at a time and, occasionally, the formation coming under fire deteriorates somewhat, but rarely does ranged combat seem to have a decisive effect on the battle overall. On the other hand, bowmen often seem pretty good once engaged in hand-to-hand combat against other foot formations. To top it off, I’ve often found that my ranged units have movement capabilities which exceed that of mounted troops. By contrast, the real deployment at Dupplin Moor of longbowmen forward and on the wings wound up driving the advancing Scots towards the center of the rebel trap, withdrawing as they went from the punishing fire of the English.

A solid victory for Beaumont and Balliol. It is not terribly off the historical mark.

In my game, once I started fending off the Scottish advance I rolled inevitably towards a victory. I didn’t quite match that oft-quoted 33 casualties suffered by the rebels but, then again, the “casualties” don’t differentiate between killed and wounded, so I can’t say how far off I really am. As satisfying as that might feel as a historical outcome, I didn’t feel so right as a player. Whupping an AI who can’t quite understand the battle which he is a part of is not so satisfying. Instead, I should have picked the Scottish side to play against the computer. It is, after all, the default set up by the scenario maker.

For a brief moment, it seemed that it could go either way, but then the Scottish lines began to break.

Unfortunately for the solo player, the game is almost as lopsided played from the other direction. You might see a little bit of my strategy from my minimap in the screenshot above. I could have tried to play historically, but remember I just saw that the advantage in this scenario was with the rebels. I therefore advanced cautiously, trying to keep my lines mostly intact with my army in echelon so that I hit what appeared to be the enemy’s stronger left wing first.

In this second version, there was some more back-and-forth initially. My own forces were breaking at least as fast as the enemies. Of course, I have more units to spare, so I’m not entirely displeased with this result. At some point, a few turns in, the lines settled into a shoving match and I wasn’t seeing units breaking from either side. For a brief moment, I though the AI might pull off something, but then his forces began to break again, while my own began to advance around, and then crumble, his flanks.

Switching sides, the lopsided victory switched sides with me. One interesting note is that, even in victory, my losses were more than double that of my enemy.

A Crescent Still Abides

A good part of the AI’s problem was its new-found aggressiveness. One of the keys to rebel victory was the fact that Beaumont held the high ground and forced the Scots to come to him. The FoG(U) AI, however, immediately charges down its hills and into the flat ground to engage me on my terms. I like to hold my formation until contact. The AI has no such desire. This, of course, begs the question – would the old FoG AI, being overall more timid, fare better with this scenario?

The AI, being more passive, did stick to his high ground. He didn’t like the feel of that crescent formation, however, and worked to straighten out his battle line before I engaged.

I replayed the scenario one final time using the original Field of Glory. I tried to play my Scottish loyalists much the same as against the FoG(U) version of the AI. The screenshot shows that my far right formation got a bit disheveled during the advance. This was largely due to some UI mismanagement (a frequent problem with the original version of FoG) whereby portions of that formation went other than where I wanted them. Realizing I had a mess on my hands, I figure it is some approximation of that zeal of the loyalist commanders to be first into the fray.

In the end, the result was much the same. The rebels held out a little longer, likely explaining the higher casualties on both sides of the field.

In an obvious display of the preferences of that AI, my opponent holds his ground, but shuffles his units to form a straight defensive line. The move nullifies the historically-decisive position of the longbows, forward on the wings. As I said above, though, I’m not sure FoG adequately simulates the use of longbows anyway. The end tally was not dissimilar to the results versus FoG(U). The actual details of the battle reflected that very different AI strategy.

Book Learning

Back in the book, Druon obviously intended at the time he wrote it for The Lily and the Lion to be the final “chapter” in The Accursed Kings. We, the readers, rapidly advance from the main events of the series (the rapid demise of all the heirs to Philip the Fair’s throne) into the true beginnings of the Hundred Years War. One piece of the story is tied off with the death of Robert of Artois (with the author is obviously being anguished by this), having thrown the entire Western world into war for, in the end, nothing. Robert died of infection after a wound suffered in a fairly minor battle. He was still an exile and his family imprisoned in France. The other piece of the story ends with the death of Jean I the Posthumous. History itself records that he died in infancy. If once assumes, as the series does, that he actually survived, living in secrecy, then he becomes the last-to-go of the male heirs of Philip the Fair.

I plan to take a short break before moving on to the final book in the series. I am particularly interested in the change in translator for the final book. Will it still read the same, or is Mr. Humprey Hare’s (I do love that name) voice a critical part of what makes Druon a success in English?

Being, at the time, his final book, Druon seems to have made some extra effort in tying the narrative to modern themes. Early on in the book, he makes a defense (and to me, a surprising one) of individual sovereignty as the basis for the Divine Right of Kings. People struggled, he suggests, with the assassination of Edward II not only because he was ordained by God to be regent, but because if they (the politicos of the Middle Ages) choose to toss their kings aside willy-nilly, it is ultimately the people’s choice to accept the rule of a king in the first place. In other words, to challenge the rule of an individual king was to challenge the rule of all kings.

It is, perhaps, an even more interesting commentary today than it was when he wrote it. In 1960, when the book was published, individual sovereignty as a basis for democracy was hardly controversial. Even in Europe, where the authority of the democratic State often inherited the power of the monarchies which they replaced, the notion of the supremacy of the individual was held in contrast to tyranny.

What a difference a half-a-century makes.

Now, at least in America, a statement about the sovereignty of individuals is likely going to be interpreted as partisan, if not “extreme.” Assuming the appellation of a “sovereign citizen of the United States,” essentially what in 1960 would have been the basis of your rights as a voter, is now as-likely-as-not to get you put on a watch list from the Southern Poverty Law Center as some kind of – well, I’m not sure exactly. A racist, anti-Semite, I suppose.

The statement sourcing the divine right of kings from individual sovereignty is simply stated and, while it doesn’t quite fit with the modern conceptualization of the French, it was written before my time here on earth. It is even more surprising to me to have it stated, as it was so matter-of-factly, regarding the mentality Medieval Europeans. Some further reading showed me that this is a valid claim. Writings from this time do survive and demonstrate Medieval thinkers, themselves extending the principles of Aristotle and the philosophers of Rome, deriving imperial power from the will of the people. Concurrent with the events in these stories, for example, Marsilius of Padua was pushing society’s understand of sovereignty towards something like enlightenment-era republicanism, including concepts such as the right of revolution.

I still have to wonder whether the actual “people,” as opposed to merely those of sufficiently royal blood to actually challenge the authority of kings, really felt that kings ultimately answered to them. It seems more likely that these ideas would be confined to barons and such, outside of the occasional republican governments formed during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.

The other significant “modern” reference that got me thinking was Druon’s comparison of the massive French loss at Sluys to the French defeat by the Germans in 1940. In both cases, Druon argues, the French had an equivalent if not superior force to work with. In both cases, the French commanders were advised that their choice of strategy was an incorrect one. In both cases, hubris by French leadership resulted in a massive loss that would have a devastating impact on the French nation for years to come. In 1960, people still remembered the military power that France once had. Again, to the modern ear, talk of France’s military prowess often rings false.

The Thousand Wars of Old

With Druon drawing his series to an end, even if that end is a false one, I’ll reflect on one more item that I had mentioned up front. The current reprinting of this series comes with an endorsement from George R. R. Martin, where he calls it the “original Game of Thrones.” In that first article, I said that I was pleased that this series is available in a current print run, however that may have come about. The longer this has sat with me, though, the more it has soured a little.

Each book in the series has a forward written by Martin. In fact, it is the same forward in every book. As I read through successive books, I come to the realization that this story isn’t A Game of Thrones. Not really. Oh sure, there are parallels. It may even be clear that Martin got some of his inspiration from having read The Accursed Kings, even without his declaration in the forward. But this series is more than A Game of Throne‘s drama, it is historical fiction. While much of Druon’s fiction is speculative, it is strongly anchored in historical fact (supported further by his footnotes and postscripts). It is also a story that focuses on the theme of the small decisions and petty politics that plunged Europe into the Hundred Years War. At its heart, the story is much more of a personal one than the tales of Westeros.

There’s another kicker. While we know that in The Accursed Kings, just like in A Game of Thrones, everybody dies in the end, for The Accursed Kings we could find out at any time exactly when any particular character dies, and how, and under what circumstances. Even if you avoid referencing Wikipedia throughout, there really isn’t any question about who is the real heir to the Iron Throne, um, I mean throne of France. It’s only a question of how the argument plays out. There are no great reveals waiting for us in future episodes of The Accursed Kings.

So it is a very different experience and very different series, as well it should be. I’m glad that The Accursed Kings is so much more than the “original Game of Thrones.” Problem is, I feel a little bit cheapened that it took Martin and that provocative assertion to draw me in in the first place. Let’s be honest, I never would have purchased a 60-year-old series translated from a foreign language without George’s prodding. I wish I was the kind of person that I would have, but I’m not. I feel just a little bit bad about that.

I’m having a similar experience on Netflix at the moment, but I’ll save that unburdening for another day.

I continue on with my reading of The Accursed Kings series by Maurice Druon with The She-Wolf (La Louve de France in the original). I a little surprised when the author not only suddenly moved the narrative from France to Britain (OK, I could figure that much from the title),but also skipped over entirely the reign of Philip V (Philippe le Long), whose coronation ended the preceding book in the series. This is about a five year gap.

The introductory chapter starts with Baron Roger Mortimer in prison, thinking of escape. Philip is dead and has been succeeded by his younger brother, Charles IV (le Bel). In England, the Despenser wars have been fought and won by Edward II.

A scenario with signature land bridge and cliff maze. My rebels are going to try to force the crossing.

Feeling a little put out at missing out on half a decade, I got out a user-made scenario covering the Battle of Boroughbridge, the loss of which ended the rebellion and the life of Thomas of Lancaster, leader of the Baronial faction. Alas, it did not quite satisfy.

The actual battle had Lancaster’s army trapped and outnumbered. Bad intelligence meant that Lancaster was caught between Edward’s army, pursuing him, and a force blocking his only path of escape, the bridge over the river Ure. Lancaster had no choice but to force a crossing against a defender who had his own force outnumbered.

From the listing of the noblemen who were at the battle, it seems likely that while Lancaster had an inferiority in overall numbers, he held a superiority when it came to the heavy horse. It is therefore quite possible that had he met the force under Andrew Harclay, 1st Earl of Carlisle on an open battlefield, his knights would have won the day. Instead, he was forced to dismount his knights and attempt to take control of the bridge in a tactical act of desperation. Simultaneously, his cavalry attempted to cross at a nearby ford.

I have complained before about the inability of Field of Glory to represent a bridge and about the lack of modeling, in pretty much any game, of the fighting across a bridge. Once again we have a battle whose entire focus is on “the bridge,” and we have to fudge that feature of the battle. We also have that feature where the scenario author has created a set of impassible cliffs to overcome the inability of units to enter over the course of the scenario. Like Lancaster, I think the Field of Glory engine would have preferred to make this engagement as a stand-up fight across an open field.

Fundamentally, the game’s AI does not understand the choke points in the terrain. Furthermore, the more aggressive AI in FoG(U) makes for an extra-lopsided battle in favor of the player. The smart move, and the historical move, for the Royalist player is to hold back behind the bridge and the ford and wait for the numerically inferior Rebel player to attempt the crossing. This is made further evident by some house rules that declare any kind of draw to be a Royalist win. The Rebels must cross the bridge and they must defeat the Royalists on their defended ground. In FoG(U) the AI will not only contest the crossings, but if the player’s fortunes lag, they will charge back across the river and attempt to bring the fight to the opposite shore. As a result, Royalist losses pile up, marching inevitably toward the win.

I replayed the game in the original Field of Glory, and it did turn out slightly better. The AI sticks to the defense and the battle looks considerably more like the historical record. I still won, but toward the end I was a tad nervous whether I would rout the enemy from the field in time. The key (in fact in both versions) was to successfully force the crossing over the ford. In FoG(U), having done so also resulted in enough Royalist losses that it was essentially game over. In the original Field of Glory, once I crossed, the battle still had yet to be won. My knights were now moving into open ground facing a largely disorganized and demoralized enemy. Winning required a maneuver which swung them into the enemy flank (the portion of the enemy defending the bridge itself) and therefore rout the remainder of the enemy.

Even while the defensive AI of the original Field of Glory plays a better game, it still can’t quite understand the choke points in the terrain. Success for the Royalist player in this scenario would likely come from minimizing the number of units defending the bridge crossing to only those needed, and using the rest of the foot soldiers to hold the ford. The AI, on the other hand, stacks up reserves behind the bridge in anticipation of engagement the Rebel force, waiting across the river.

In the actual battle, the Royalist used Scottish-style Schiltron formations to defend the ford from the Knights on horseback crossing it. That and longbow support was enough to hold. In the bridge itself, the narrow pathway was easy to defend with pikemen blocking the way. There is one story of the battle that tells of a lone pikeman who crept beneath the bridge. From there, he was able to stuff his spear through the planking of the bridge and into the asshole of Humphrey de Bohun, 4th Earl of Hereford, killing him in a particularly gruesome and painful fashion. It may well not have happened this way at all. The graphic death of Hereford would seem to portend the end of the Edward II and his encounter with a hot poker, another story whose authenticity is in doubt. Did history seem so boring to the English that they had to liven it up with the insertion of anal defilers into otherwise sparse narratives? Can this help to explain the plight of England today? I’ll leave this as an exercise for the reader.

The title of this article is a line from Braveheart. It is delivered by soon-to-be Queen Isabella to the dying Edward I. While witnessing William Wallace’s execution, she tells him that her unborn child is not the offspring of her husband, Edward II, but is the result of a tryst with Wallace. She lets the King go to his grave knowing that his line will die with him.

Now, we all know that fictionalization of history can be used to add character and depth to a series of historical facts. We can’t know what the kings and queens of the 11th and 12th century said to each other, so a film must create entirely fictional dialog. This is understandable. Often, we don’t mind a dramatization going evenfurtherafield, advancing a compelling drama that capture the flavor of the times, if not the details. But sometimes a situation goes beyond even the absurd.

When William Wallace was executed, in 1305, Isabella was ten-years-old and still living in France, as of yet still 2-3 year away from her marriage to Edward II. It is unlikely she ever met Wallace. But on the outside chance that she did (when he was visiting France seeking political support), she was probably closer to the age of 5. Although Edward I arranged the betrothal of his own son and the daughter of Philip IV of France, the father had passed on before the marriage ever took place and he, likely, never met his future daughter-in-law either.

Stuffing Isabella into the Braveheart story is entirely unnecessary. She makes an interesting subject on her own and has been the subject of dramatizations starting from Christopher Marlowe’s 1592 play The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second, King of England, with the Tragical Fall of Proud Mortimer and continuing to the present day. It is one of those present-day accounts I will turn to now.

Lost in Translation

When I was young, I had a bad experience with foreign novels.

There is no language, except English, where I have the proficiency to read anything of complexity. So any non-English novel that I want to read, I must read a translation of it. The first problem is that relatively few books are translated. I don’t have a handy source for my speculations, but I think that the number of non-English books published each year, which are subsequently translated to English and made available in the American market, is in the single-digits (percentage-wise). I’m talking in general, not classic literature, where the scholarly treatment is considerably different. I would think 5% would be a reasonable figure to use.

Once a book is translated, there is then another factor. Not only is the quality of the writing important, but the quality of the translation as well. Again, with classical works, academics will, over generations, work on refining translations to capture various aspects of the original language. But for a popular work, there is likely one translator, hired by a publisher, to do the work. That leaves us, as English-only consumers, as dependent on the translator as we are on the original author for a quality read. A really good translator needs to be not only proficient in both languages, but also should be a skilled writer (of the translated genre, one might imagine) in his own right as well as something of a literary critic.

I honestly don’t remember what caused it, but for years I simply assumed all translated books were going to be tough reads, and avoided them wherever possible. This finally changed in college when I was assigned a rather nice translation of Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le Noir. But even with my prejudice lifted, there are still so many native language books to read that it is rare for me to take up a non-native work.

An Iron King for an Iron Throne?

I digress so because I was looking at some of the more modern dramatizations of the life of Isabella and I found that there are many. One that stood out for me was the author Maurice Druon and his series Les Rois maudits in that, despite being something like six decades old, the novels are receiving current attention. Most noticeable, the author and the series come recommended by George R. R. Martin, citing it as an inspiration for A Game of Thrones.

This last would seem to be more than just coincidental. As Martin discussed his appreciation for Druon and his works, the series was being re-released in English by Martin’s publisher. The “original Game of Thrones” line could be put on covers and sold to fans waiting, desperate and disappointed, for the next book in the actual Song of Fire and Ice series. Whatever the behind the scenes, it works out well for me. Instead of having to try to find used copies of translations from the 1960s, I can order a newly-printed, English version of The Iron King to be delivered to me two days’ hence and enjoy these books that were, until a couple of years ago, decades out of print.

The book is well written and an enjoyable read. This is a compliment not only to the author, but to the translator. The latter, Humphrey Hare, is the original translator of the book; it does not appear that the series was re-translated for the current printing, except that the final book in the series, which was never translated in the first place.

The opening book of the series ties together the execution of the last Grand Master of the Knights Templar (Jacques de Molay) with the crises of succession that began with the Tour de Nesle affair, the death of Philip IV of France, and the questions of inheritance that ultimate fueled the Hundred Years’ War. Historical events are convincingly, while also entertainingly, told. They are also almost certainly not accurate.

The relationship between Edward II and Isabella, as I said, has been developed over the centuries, creating a narrative of how the “She-wolf of France*” was ignored by her weak and homosexual husband, leading her to resent, hate, and ultimately kill him. While she did indeed play a major role in dethroning her own husband, there is plenty of evidence that their marriage was a happy and loving one. They had, together, four children and, when apart, addressed each other in letters using affectionate pet names. Written signs of this affection extend even beyond the date when Edward had abdicated and was imprisoned. Isabella’s role in his death is by no means proven. More likely, established story of today is a combination of political rumor of the time combined with fanciful storytelling from future generations.

Even the titular “curse” may be a combination of a several different, yet similar events. There are even historians that doubt the veracity of the accusations of adultery. The proof of them are confessions obtained by torture, which is not the most reliable source of information.

As improbable as the narrative of Les Rois maudits matching the true events of the day may be, it is nevertheless impossible to prove that things did not take place in such a manner. The story fully fleshes out the tale in a way that is believable, compelling, and fun.

Agreed to Have a Battle

The Tour de Nesle was a political event which would not have counterparts in wargames. It is easy to trace the impact of what happened into the future of Europe. For example, with the parentage of the grandchildren of Phillip IV in doubt, French inheritance would come to emphasize the male relatives over closer relatives through the female relations. The difference in French and English interpretations led to Edward III’s claim to the French throne, a claim that led to the Hundred Years War. It is harder to find a companion game to share in the flavor and timeframe of The Iron King.

Instead, I’ll return to the alternate timeline that I had started earlier. My House Neuchâtel continues to rule Upper Burgundy with an eye to either independence or further prominence within the Holy Roman Empire. By this point we are obviously pretty far afield from any direct relation to historical events.

In fact, in this reality, we find ourselves with the Holy Roman Empire at war with England. King George (350 years too early) of England has managed to get himself excommunicated. Holy Roman Emperor Bořivoj Přemyslid declared war on the Heretic, probably with good reason, but those reasons weren’t shared with me. I saw an opportunity to advance my position.

I managed to “discover” that I had a strong claim on the County of Auvergne, near enough to my coveted “Greater Burgundy,” but currently under the jurisdiction of King George. Having done so, I offered to send my forces in support of Emperor Boris. Now, as far as I know, my claim was rather irrelevant to the whole process. Unlike Europa Universalis, Crusader Kings does not allow a negotiated peace drawing from all sorts of potential concessions. The conclusion of a war results in exactly the peace conditions that were specified when the war was declared. However, I figured coming in on the side of the Emperor would improve my standing in his court, earn me some prestige from my victories, as well as smack England around making it easy to capture Auvergne in some future war. On top of that, the Emperor seemed like he could use the help.

August 1319. I have sent my armies into Auvergne to occupy the castle to which I claim title. While I got smacked around a bit at first, I managed to win a siege. The Emperor’s main army, besieging Toulouse, is about to face a larger English relief force.

This setup leads a to a battle that is interesting from a strategic perspective in that it engages the vast majority of the troops available to both sides. It is also interesting in that the outcome is by no means preordained. Because of the close match, I’m going to once again create a tactical version of the battle in Field of Glory.

The armies have engaged. The English have a slight advantage in numbers, but the Germans are operating from a semi-permanent siege camp.

Bringing my Burgundians into the battle gets the two armies very close to evenly-matched in numbers. As the main battle commences, my money was against the Empire. The English have a slight edge in numbers and in organization, although other factors work against them. Reconstructing this fight in FoG(U) creates an even bigger gap.

I array my army with the flanks anchored against two large hills. It proved to be sufficient to stop the English.

My first and obvious mistake was that I chose a map too big for the armies and the battle. It having been a while since I set up a random battle, I thought the two armies sounded really big. In fact, they are to the large end of medium. With the large battlefield, it took 7 turns for the two armies to move forward into a reasonable engagement distance. As we’ve seen before, the FoG(U) AI moves aggressively forward, without attempting to keep his armies in line. I, on the other hand, did my best to retain my formation until engagement. In addition to its size, this terrain is probably too flat and open for Southwestern France. In FoG(U), random battle maps are not autogenerated. You must chose from a subset of the existing scenario library.

The last time I tried this, I thought the haphazard AI attack would be their undoing. It turned out not to be. In this case, my own line held together throughout the battle, and I was able to defeat the enemy as the waves came at me. In the end I won a solid victory.

The English line have broken, and the remnants of their armies flee the field. I cut them down with my pursuit.

Perhaps most surprisingly, the tactical result again matched the strategic result. Now, I’m not saying this is anything but dumb luck. While there may be factors that predicted a German win in Crusader Kings, there is nothing that translated those factors to the tactical battle. I just find it surprising that this exercise has worked, now, twice in a row.

Death Comes to Us All

In the end, everyone died. First King George, then the Emperor, and the my own Duke. The Emperor’s death, in particular, shook all of Europe. With the child heir now nominal Emperor, factions rose up across Europe trying to place a more capable successor on the imperial throne. Suddenly, the war with a now-dead excommunicated English king seemed like a minor worry. England’s armies had been beaten down enough that, while they were left to retake their lost castles rather unopposed, a truce was eventually declared with no clear winner (a White Peace in EU terms).

Somewhere in here, my aging Duke died leaving his inheritance to his grandson. The claim on the English county died with the elder Duke, leaving the whole episode an exercise in pointlessness. Welcome to the twelfth century.

*The epithet was used by Shakespeare in History of Henry VI, Part III to describe Margaret of Anjou, but was reapplied to Isabella by Thomas Gray in 1757. Isabella is probably most associated with the term today.